"Worm"
Hark! Yet ANOTHER Grima fic! The world is now a better place! Enjoy!
And by the way, the dialogue is taken from "The Scouring of the Shire" -- the best chapter EVER of ANYTHING -- of "The Return of the King." the BOOK. So please note, there are SPOILERS for those who have not read it!
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Gríma paced slowly around the small, sparsely furnished hut. It was a bit more comfortable than the cold black stone of Orthanc, and by all means more pleasant than the side of the road, but he still did not care for it. It was no matter to him where they stayed, so long as he was fed. Saruman always made him sleep on the floor anyway.
He stopped and drew a knife from the folds of his black cloak. There was blood on it, brown and dried from what he had been ordered to do a few nights past. He scratched a bit of it off with a grimy fingernail, then cleaned the rest of the knife on the inside of his cloak. It took some force, and the blade pierced the fabric once or twice. But that did not matter either. He did not really care anymore.
Gríma lifted the now semi-clean blade before him. Silver shone halfheartedly through a few obstinate brown stains. It was good enough. He held it up, examining his work.
He caught a sliver of his face in the streaked metal. One dull blue eye, red-rimmed from lack of sleep, stared back at him from a pale face. Gríma quickly stuffed the knife back into his cloak, detesting what it was he saw. It was no wonder Éowyn had never given him a second glance.
Was Éowyn even still alive? He had no way of knowing. He had not been very sorry to hear that Saruman's army was destroyed at Helm's Deep, bearing strong hatred for the wizard and hoping beyond hope that the woman would live.
Gríma wished he had asked Gandalf or even Galadriel about Éowyn when he and Saruman encountered them on the road; he wished he had followed Gandalf's advice and left Saruman for good, but he had the courage for neither. As much as he hated Saruman his master, his fear of the Elves and especially of the White Wizard Gandalf was much greater.
Éowyn.
He had whispered her name to the dark so many times and yet he was always Wormtongue in her mind. How he had longed for her, waited for the day when she would come to him in her grief. It had begun the day he had declared Éomer banished, the day she discovered Théodred dead. Her eyes had met his; she had allowed his fingers to linger on her beautiful face. True, she scorned him a moment later, but it was still a victory for him.
Gríma had believed that with Éomer out of the way and Théoden helpless, he possessed all the time in the world to spend with Éowyn. He would have seduced her given enough time – but then the bearer of the Ring of Barahir and that meddling Láthspell had come and ruined everything.
He heard voices outside, one of which he recognized as Saruman's, but he ignored them. He cared little for the wizard's business in the land of the Halflings; he had no idea what Saruman wanted out of the place. All that mattered was that he did Saruman's bidding so as to avoid provoking his anger.
He could hear Saruman's cruel laughter floating through the hut's small window. Gríma struggled to keep his own anger in check. There was naught to laugh about, not in these times.
"Worm! Worm!"
Gríma hated the less-than-kind name, but he responded anyway as he must. Sighing, he came shuffling out of the hut into the dim, tired sunlight.
Saruman was standing at the round door of what the Halflings called Bag End, exchanging words with a large group of them. Most of them were armed with short swords or bows. There were four in the front who seemed to be the leaders. There was one who had the calm, weary mark of one who has suffered indescribably but prevailed, and also a fatter and angrier one who seemed near to burst from rage at the condition of his homeland. The other two were especially tall and dressed as soldiers, the first wearing the black and silver of the King and the other in the green of Rohan and carrying a horse-emblazoned shield. For a moment Gríma thought that he might ask this one of Éowyn, but the thought died when he saw the look on Saruman's face.
"To the road again, Worm!" he said, casting a disdainful glance at the small militia of Shire-folk. "These fine fellows and lordlings are turning us adrift again. Come along!"
The wizard went to push past the first Halfling, and suddenly Gríma knew what was going to happen. Saruman pulled out a knife from his robes as quick as lightning, and stabbed at the Halfling's chest. Gríma and Saruman alike were surprised to see the blade break and fall harmlessly to the ground, though Saruman was far more sorry about it. A good number of the armed ones grabbed Saruman by the robes and in an unexpected show of strength and fury threw the wizard into the dirt.
The heavy Halfling drew his sword. Gríma offered a silent prayer to the Valar, no matter how deaf to him as they were, that this one would kill Saruman and free them all. But his hopes were quashed in an instant.
"No, Sam!" cried the first Halfling, the one who had been attacked. "Do not kill him even now. For he has not hurt me. And in any case I do not wish him to be slain in this evil mood. He was great once, of a noble kind that we should not dare to raise our hands against. He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope that he may find it."
Gríma marveled at the Halfling's kindness and mercy. He cursed it.
The wizard got up, though watched warily by those who had flung him down. Gríma could not tell if it was respect or hatred that now dominated Saruman's mind. "You have grown, Halfling. Yes, you have grown very much," he said, and it was no compliment. "You are wise, and cruel. You have robbed my revenge of sweetness, and now I must go hence in bitterness, in debt to your mercy. I hate it and you!" At this he turned and looked to leave. "Well, I go and will trouble you no more. But do not expect me to wish you health and long life. You will have neither. But that is not my doing. I merely foretell." The Halfling regarded him with cool acceptance, unshaken by his words.
Saruman held his head high and strode purposefully down to the gate, the Halflings giving him a wide berth in case he attempted another trick. Gríma stared at the kind one for a moment, wondering what ever possessed the creature to let the wizard go after doing so much wrong against him. Then he hurried after Saruman lest he be rebuked.
"Wormtongue!"
Gríma turned. It was the same Halfling who had forgiven Saruman. The Halfling's blue eyes were fixed on him and they were kind. He wondered what now he would say.
"You need not follow him. I know of no evil you have done to me. You can have rest and food here for a while, until you are stronger and can go your own ways."
For a moment he was about to say no, but then he thought better of it. Would it be so terrible to stay? The Halflings were kind and it would only be for a short while. Perhaps he could even return to Edoras one day. He would give anything to see Éowyn's face again, to make her love him as he had always desired.
But Saruman had other ideas. His eyes flashed in mockery. "No evil? Oh no! Even when he sneaks out at night it is only to look at the stars. But did I hear someone ask where poor Lotho is hiding?" All of Gríma's hopes withered. "You know, don't you, Worm? Will you tell them?"
"No, no!" he said whimpering like a dog, falling to his knees. Now the Halflings would turn on him, denying him his only chance for freedom from the wizard, from death.
"Then I will," the wizard said, and Gríma swore he was positively enjoying it. "Worm killed your Chief, poor little fellow, your nice little Boss. Didn't you, Worm? Stabbed him in his sleep, I believe. Buried him, I hope; though Worm has been very hungry lately."
Anger grew within Gríma, threatening to spill out at any second. If it was anyone's fault he had gone hungry it was Saruman's. It was Saruman's fault that he would never have Éowyn. Saruman had lied, had worked to make him believed that if he entered the wizard's service then he could live happily. Saruman was to blame for everything.
"No, Worm is not really nice. You had better leave him to me."
The Halflings' faces were stony, but although the first one still looked as though he was not entirely convinced, the rest tightened their grips on their weapons. He had killed one of their kin, and no matter how unpopular that one was they undoubtedly would want to avenge him.
Everything was falling apart. Gríma hissed out, snakelike, "You told me to; you made me do it." Wild hatred was burning to get out.
And Saruman laughed.
"You do what Sharkey says, always, don't you, Worm? Well, now he says: follow!" With these as his final words Saruman kicked Gríma in the face. It stung as it always did, but now it stung in a different way too. Staring with rage at Saruman's retreating back as he swept down the path, Gríma saw in him the man who had kept him from happiness, from Éowyn, so many times.
He would have revenge.
He rose with speed, snatched the knife from within his cloak, and snarling came up behind Saruman. He grabbed a handful of the wizard's white hair and pulled back his head. For myself, and for Éowyn, he thought, taking the knife and roughly cutting Saruman's throat. The wizard's voice would trouble him no longer.
A glorious feeling of freedom washed through him. In triumph but also in fear of the Halflings' retribution he yelled and made to run. But his victory was short lived; the Halflings struck him down fast with their bows and he fell in a pile of black.
He let go his last breath and wondered if now he would find rest, even in an otherworldly land with no hope of seeing her for many long years. He wondered if the mighty Valar, and more importantly, Éowyn, could ever forgive him, and then he wondered no more.
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